


And All Our Dreams Will End in Death

by marybarrymore



Category: 15th Century CE RPF
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Nostalgia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24644947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marybarrymore/pseuds/marybarrymore
Summary: Henry Chichele, the aged Archbishop of Cantebury, thought of his rise to power and his master in time of turmoil.
Relationships: Henry V & Henry Chichele Archbishop of Canterbury
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	And All Our Dreams Will End in Death

Archbishop Chichele had a dream.

He woke up in the dead of night, staring at the arras in complete darkness, musing silently about it. It was a good dream, with a hazel-eyed youth smiling at him, speaking incomprehensible words that he could not recall. But when he held out for him, it was gone.

He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, tried to dream his interrupted dream. But though he can command the Anglican Church, he could not control his vision. And he had not dreamt of Harry again when the servants woke him up for martins.

It is a strange thing, he thought, when the servants were busy dressing him, that Harry should be smiling in his dream. He had not dreamt of Harry for quite some time and would have thought that when he did, he would see Harry in an entirely different manner … but let be.

However, the matter still weighed on his heart. When the martin was over, and he retreated to his room leaning on the archdeacon’s shoulder, the face, Harry’s face that he dreamt of, still haunted his mind. It was the face that he had now forgotten. It was the face of the prince, young, handsome, and gay. The face he saw when Harry leaned on his arm, consulting him about the teaching of Gerogrey the Great. The face e saw when he caught Harry after a successful prick, laughing, calling him ‘Father,’ holding his sleeve. His heart had softened then and completely forgot to chide Harry for his misdeeds.

‘Your resignation…’ he heard the archdeacon say, ‘Your Highness still desire it?’

Ah, yes. His resignation. He asked to be relieved from the office some months ago and would have thought that Rome would only be too happy. After all, he had devoted some twenty years of his life fighting against the will of Rome. The Curia had showered Cardinal’s hats on his colleagues to humiliate him. Now that there was finally a chance to get rid of him, the Holy Father would by no means resist it. But his will was denied, and the Pope, out of some unknown intention, informed him that the Anglican Church is crucial for a crusade against the pagans and that the Archbishop of Canterbury must do his duty.

It really was no matter, the Archbishop thought. It just meant rewriting his draft, that was all. He took the parchment from the archdeacon’s hand, tried to read it. But the words were all blurred. He took it closer, hands trembling. But still, he could not read it.

‘Let me, your Highness.’ The archdeacon said, taking the parchment away.

Indeed, the Archbishop thought painfully, as the archdeacon read out his resignation in a dull tune, he must resign and step down from office. He was eighty. He could not act like that William of Wykham, who stuck to his seat even when he had become an old fool. It is time for him to step down in the place of the youths.

He was old.

* * *

When Archbishop was but a lad, no one ever dreamt of him one-day becoming the Archbishop. He remembered his elder brother, wandering around with him at Oxford when he was admitted to the New College, had said proudly that it would be a glorious thing for the Chichele Family if he would be a bishop.

Of course, no one had ever dreamt of it. How could they? Henry Chichele was but of humble birth, a young son of a common squire, with two brothers merchandising in London. As far as he was concerned, the bishops and archbishops were either younger sons of an ancient noble house or bastard sons of a distinguished patron. They were the ones who had the potential to be great. They have the resources and the men ready to achieve their ambitions. But as for Henry Chichele? Alas, he had none. And though the Bishop of Salisbury smiled favourably on him, after all these years he was but a mere archdeacon on the Welsh Marches, running parishes ruined by the rebellion of Owen Glyndwr. He pitied himself sometimes, reflecting on his ambition when he first entered Oxford.

Until he met Harry.

'... as touching France,' he heard the archdeacon said thus, the words were blurred, as if from the other end of a long, dark tunnel, '...would you talk to the King?'

'What good is that?' the Archbishop let out a laugh, half-mockingly, 'Would he listen?'

He sometimes found it quite amusing. He had never succeeded in persuading Harry - which is hardly a surprise, considering how uncompromising Harry had always been. But the young king, with his swaying opinions, could even be persuaded otherwise by a mocking bird. Yet still he cannot change the boy's mind. Maybe he was indeed too old.

'If Kemp could stand with us, the King might give us his ear. But as I know of, he has already taken Beaufort's side. You know our King only listens to his favourites. I am long cast aside, discarded by the court. He will never listen to my advice.'

John Kemp, the Northern Archbishop with a silver tongue - the Cardinal with a silver tongue he had become now. The Archbishop smiled bitterly. They were both sons of minor squires, but Kemp, with his silver tongue had persuaded Harry to let him keep the London See and took the Archbishopric of York from Philp Morgan backed by the Curia. Now, he had allied with Beaufort and became the most trusted clergyman of the young king, casting the Archbishop of Canterbury aside.

But there was nothing he could do to alter this. He was an old man.

* * *

The Archbishop still remembered his youth. He was not young then, around forty, to be honest, and not quite high-spirited. Anyone who had spent their best years in those shitty march dioceses could not be very high-spirited. Philip Morgan shared his archdeaconry and used to assist him in various cases.

The King, at that time, had just triumphed over his adversary at someplace near their diocese, quashing the Northern rebellion and relived the Welsh March a bit. He made full use of the relative peace to go to Salisbury, burying himself in the archive, looking up for precedents and legislations. The new Bishop of Salisbury, Robert Hallum, he heard, was a favourite of the Prince of Wales. He heard other things as well, about how the young prince fought valiantly until victory was sealed on the bloody field of Shrewsbury, and how his father, pleased by his gallantry, gave him full leave deal with the Welsh affairs. He must admit he had a faint hope when wandering around Salisbury Cathedral, that one day he might see the chivalric prince, or better, noticed by him and taken into his service. But why should the Prince of Wales pay any heed to a humble priest? And of course he did not meet the prince.

Until half a year later.

He was to return some files that day. Morgan followed him closely, head buried behind the hill of files he was holding. He noticed at the first glance upon entering the nave that the Cathedral was in a mirthful mess. Before he could make anything out of it, the monks started to retreat to the sides, clearing out a way. He pulled Morgan aside, and saw Bishop Hallum, wearing his most beauteous vestment and his gold-embroidered gloves, walked slowly towards their direction, with a young man in a blue robe at his side.

He paid no heed to the Bishop. His whole attention was immediately drawn by the other youth. It was the same with Morgan, he presumed, for he could feel his companion lifting his eyes behind the file hill, staring at the two as they walked slowly by. He was a fair young man, tall and slender, with an oval face and wide forehead. Half of his face was under a silver mask. The Bishop was conferring something with him in an unusual humble manner, and the young man listened attentively, the unmasked half of his face betraying no impression whatsoever. He seemed haughty and stern. That must be the Prince of Wales, Chichele thought.

The youth's hazel eyes glanced past him as he walked by, without sparing him a look. Chichele smelt the scent of perfume, cold and distant like the master who wore it. It was hard to believe that this was the son of the easy-going King Henry. But easy to believe that this was the young hero who, despite being wounded seriously, retreated not but fought back with full might and won the day.

Later that day, when he and Morgan were busying themselves in the dusty archive, looking for precedents for a new case at hand, he wiped his sweaty, dusty face with his sleeve and heard something outside. Something unbecoming to the dull life of the Cathedral.

Morgan was absorbed in the files, so he carefully glanced through the narrow window, into the cloister garden. The blue-robed youth was in the garden, arm-in-arm with another young man in a red houppelande. He was laughing.

'Richard, Richard,' the Prince of Wales laughed and said, 'must I wear this thing?'

'The monks are timid as hares,' the other person, Richard, was smiling indulgently, 'You can't take the risk of frightening them to their deaths.'

The Prince mumbled something and laughed again, walked out of his sight with Richard. But he still stared through the window at his direction long after he was out of sight. When he finally withdrew his gaze, he felt the room as dark as hell, his whole mind filled with thoughts of the youth, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners.

Such a person was born to be looked up to, and he, Henry Chichele, was willing to be the one looking up to him in the cheering crowd. He never dreamt of receiving a summon a few days after the incident: The Prince of Wales would like to meet him.

He went through the gates of Shrewsbury with a dizzy head, entering the castle, and felt as if he had sunken into a dream. The castle was crowded and busy. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry. The Prince was leaving before noon, a servant kindly informed him. Whereto? To Wales of course. He had work unfinished in Wales. He pointed the way. Chichele thanked him and headed to the stairs, forcing his way through a hurl of servants running up and down at an astounding speed.

He found the Prince of Wales in his room, standing in front of a desk with his back towards the door. The other man in red houppelande the other day - the Earl of Warwick, as he learnt of - who was sitting in a corner, raised his head, apparently finding him more amusing than the spaniel he was caressing.

'Henry Chichele?' The Prince of Wales said in a delightful tone and turned around. Chichele nearly fell to his knees, not out of some noble feelings like awe or admiration, but purely out of fright. He understood at an instant why the Prince wore a mask that day, and why the Earl of Warwick said he would terrify the monks. An ugly scar stretched from beneath his eyes to the corner of his mouth, ruining his otherwise fair countenance, twitching his lips into a weird smile. He suddenly realised what they meant when they said the prince had been 'seriously wounded'.

The prince seemed to be unaware of his reaction and continued anyway.

'So you're Henry Chichele,' he said with a faint smile in his beautiful hazel eyes, 'I know your brothers, they introduced you to me. I've read the cases you undertook. You are talented. I like you.' the smile widened, the scar suddenly disappeared from Chichele's sight. The youth was smiling, he who was beautiful as Tirzah, comely as Jerusalem, terrible as an army with banners. 'I'm leaving for Shrewsbury today. Will you come with me?'

He remembered not what he answered. He remembered himself kneeling and kissed the hand Harry gave him. He remembered Harry was wearing a ring that day, an ancient ring, with a ruby set in the golden pedestal

'As an eagle stirreth up her nest...'

Two years later, he took up gold-embroidered gloves and vestments of a bishop.

Nine years later, he took up the golden staff and the archiepiscopal mitre.

Thirty-six years later, the aged Archbishop of Canterbury sat in his chamber, recalling the turning-point of his life, and wondered what could possibly have happened had he turned Harry down.

He couldn't figure out.

* * *

The Archbishop wandered through London in his carriage, the heavy curtain separating him from the outside world. He had lifted the corner of the curtain when he first got into it and saw that the street was lined with ragged and mutilated men, beggars, veterans, some holding out their hands with missing fingers. He lowered it again, knowing such sight too well to be moved. The little king had suffered defeat after defeat in Anjou and Maine, and England's archers had been thrown back to the country, humiliated by the French. Yet no one employed any means to appease them. It is only a matter of time before these disaffected, strong men roam the streets of the capital with hatred and dissatisfaction.

And yet, the Archbishop wondered slowly, with more satisfaction than uneasiness this time, what did it all have to do with him? He was old, and even if the day comes when the little king reaped what he sowed, he would not be there to witness it.

The carriage was so slow that he almost fell asleep, and the road seemed endlessly long, almost as if the journey from Lambeth Palace to London Gate had stretched a dozen times without his noticing. Of course, he knew in his heart that this was but an illusion. An illusion which occurred only because he still dimly remembered the time when he rode past the same road on his gentle steed, so proud and so sure of himself, so full of vigour that he would have had ridden to Berwick in three days with much ease. But nothing was the same anymore and he could no longer ride a steed.

The Archbishop did not always ride a horse. Such a noble steed was too much for a humble archdeacon like him. When he first began to serve Harry, he was just like all the other lawyers, following the retinue on a little mule. But the Prince of Wales was talkative, and to answer all his endless inquiries he could but hurry his ride to follow Harry's destrier. It took the mule two days to decide that it had enough of him, and throwing him in the mud, went along for a more liberal master. He sat stunned in the mud and watched as the youth laughed his head off, jumping off his horse and pulled him from the ground, and despite his reverent protests ("Pleases your Highness I really can't ride") threw him onto his own mount.

He was falling apart after a day, but had miraculously learned to ride a horse in Harry's laughter.

Harry was always smiling then, the Archbishop remembered, even when he was drunk and roguishly pampered on the Archbishop's shoulder, complaining about the King's misdeeds. But that had been a long, long time ago. He remembered the beggars in the streets, the knife-like eyes, the tight-clasped lips... If only the young king had half his father's talent...

But the little king had none of it, and the territory Harry gained was about to be lost. Harry's eyes were always on Normandy. he knew not the reason, only that he would always follow Harry, whatever the cause, but he regretted it. He regretted long ago, when the child he loved coughing it up in his arms in the winter of Normandy. He did not travel day and night from Hafleur to Rouen, only to have his child splashed blood on the best vestments he had purposely put on to meet him.

The Archbishop had no children. He knew that raising an illegitimate child or two was as common as breathing in the Church, and that Cardinal Beaufort had a bastard daughter begotten by a FitzAlan girl, and gave her a generous dowry for her to marry into a good family some time ago. But he did not wish to do so, first because of his stubborn adherence to the charters and regulations that no one seemed to care about, and second because he was too poor to afford such pastime. Later because he was more strict about keeping the charters, and even more so because a smirking teen came stalking into his life.

Harry was just over fourteen, not a boy but not yet a man, and there was still an occasional hint of careless childishness under the serious mask he wore. The Archbishop has never understood why the King didn't like his son - he would have loved him to death had he had such a son. All he knew was that the king's malice had something to do with the long-deceased King Richard. Harry always showed little concern, except that his hands would tremble softly, his nose would flare, and he would call him Father after a few glasses of wine, grinning and saying that he didn't care at all, with some liquid slipping from the corner of his eyes.

He had no child. Harry was his child. he would give Harry all that he had, he would stand firmly with Harry despite everything. he stood behind him and watched the boy grow up, grabbing power step by step, plotted with him with almost benevolent pride to see him stand on top of the world.

Then suddenly he was gone, disappearing from the Archbishop's life without even bidding him adieu.

He was a bastard, the Archbishop thought drowsily, just like that stinking son of his, bastards.

* * *

Harry folded his hands and rested them behind his head, looking at him with an idle smile.

Ah, father, Harry said, I broke my word.

The Archbishop wanted to scold him, but Harry looked at him and smiled, with eyes like those of a pigeon beside a stream, as he had looked after every prank, and the Archbishop felt that his mouth was sealed.

Father, Harry went on, with that irritating smile still on his lips, take care of that son of mine for me.

So the Archbishop wanted to scold him even more, and was doubly annoyed that he couldn't utter a word.

Harry suddenly became serious, and he came to the Archbishop and put his hand in his. His hand was cold, icy.

Father, I'm sorry, he whispered, and the Archbishop's hands shook so much that he couldn't hold Harry's. Harry buried his head in his palms, he couldn't see Harry's face, only the untamed curls of brown hair on top of his head.

I'll wait for you, Harry said, forget me not.

"Your Grace, we have arrived."

The Archbishop's eyes snapped open, his servant's head floated up and down in a mist of cloud before him. He nodded mechanically, staying seated in situ, couldn't believe he'd had that dream, with details so vivid it was as if it had actually happened. The Archbishop knew it had - not actually happen, but he had had exactly the same dream before, woken by a knock on the door and found himself leaning against the alter, fully dressed, fallen asleep, with a red mark on his forehead. Then the door-keeper told him, with all due regularity, that someone wanted to see him. He went out, met the man, and received a letter, a ring and a message. The letter long, the ring familiar, and the message one simple sentence.

His Harry was dead.

* * *

He went into the halls of Greenwich Palace, where he had not been for a long time, or rather, it was a long time since he had set foot anywhere other than Lambeth Palace and his bishopric. But he felt he should come and meet the Duke of Gloucester, half out of obligation and half out of affection, for they are both useless old men, forgotten by the court and wallowing in nostalgia for long-forgotten times - like Harry's great ships rotting in Southampton. The Duke of Gloucester was not old, or rather, not very old, but he had long since stepped away from politics like the archbishop and hid himself in Greenwich, like a semi-recluse. Some said that he was pretending to be sick, and that he had deliberately chosen to oppose the young king thus because of his dissatisfaction, but the archbishop knew that these men were only half right. The Duke of Gloucester, it is true, thought ill of the young king's character and policies, but he was not pretending to be ill, but had been lingering ill for nearly a decade. He was such a broken man that he was powerless to oppose the young king even if he wanted to. Henry IV's children were not destined to live a long life. Princess Blanche was only seventeen when she died in her husband's arms. Her only son died on the eve of his coming of age; Louis of Bavaria almost cried his eyes out. Princess Philippa was kicked to death by her alcoholic husband, her child stillborn. To everyone's surprise, Thomas died before Harry; and John has been dead for five years, broken by the burden Harry imposes on his shoulders. In the end, all that remained of the once most envied family in Europe, the four princes who greeted Emperor in their golden robes, was Humphrey, the Duke of Gloucester, a feeble, useless old man.

The Archbishop didn't like the gloomy palace, which always brought back bad memories over the years, the dark cloud of doom hanging over the House of Lancaster. People whispered behind their backs, whispering the curse of Archbishop Scroope, the curse of Richard II, or if more erudite, referring to Edward II's curse on Thomas of Lancaster. Curses upon curses, doom upon doom, the Lancaster family are without a successor, and Harry's boy was foolish beyond their wildest imagination. The war was losing and the court in upheaval. the Duke of Gloucester withdrew from Westminster and dictated Harry's Gesta to his Italian secretary.

The Archbishop met the Duke in his study. The Duke was not dictating his memoir; the book had been finished years ago, and the Italian who had written it had long since left England. But the Duke was indeed writing something. There were a few teeth marks on the quill, and the parchment in front of the Duke was scribbled indistinguishably, which the Archbishop peered at for a moment to discern a few scribbles, but enough for him to deduce what the Duke of Gloucester was writing.

"Why don't you go talk to him yourself?"

The Duke gave a short laugh, "Talk to him? I'd like to talk to him myself! De la Pole is guarding him like a jailer, and I can't even meet him!"

The Archbishop did not answer, the Duke was indeed old. Once the fairest prince of all England, now with a head as bright as an egg and a wrinkled face flattened with malice, was now looking at the Archbishop in anger, but not for his words.

"That little beast! He thinks he's grown up, and will overturn all of his father's policies one by one! If it wasn't for that God damned Beaufort's compulsions! God knows what our fat bishop has gotten out of the French! Harry told us never to let Orléans free before he died, but he said, 'Times have changed.' 'We can't stick to the ways of the old.'" He pounded his fist on the table, "I won't allow it! He can't do that!"

The Archbishop, though, was taken aback; it had been a long time since he had seen the Duke of Gloucester react with such fury, and it was as if he had returned to the days of the Council of Regency, and every council in which the Duke sat ended with some sort of disaster. They were young, energetic, and quarrelsome then. Now they are old and decrepit, but they are still arguing.

"Beaufort, though selfish and addicted to accumulating wealth, was still loyal to the crown and even went so far as to offend Rome for it," the Archbishop said slowly, "not to mention the fact that with de la Pole pulling the string, the young king himself is very fond of this idea. My lord, the release of Orléans is a fact. I advise you, for your own good, not to interfere in this matter."

Humphrey looked up at him in bewilderment, for a moment recalling to him the gentle boy with long eyelashes and big eyes who was always stuck to Harry's side. The illusion was fleeting, and the Duke of Gloucester stormed again.

"Young King! What kind of a king is he? As shallow and stupid as his mother, stumbling over his words, ignorant of national affairs, not at all like his father's child! I'm Harry's brother, and if I don't interfere, who will! Do any of you remember what Harry commanded of you?"

We all remember, the Archbishop thought, looking up into the blushing face of the Duke of Gloucester. We all remember, Duke Humphrey, that it was you yourself who forgot Harry's words, when you flirted with that Hainault woman, and quarrelled with the Duke of Burgundy with impunity. Have you ever thought of Harry when you committed these deeds?

"Humphrey," the Archbishop took a deep breath and tried again, "don't be foolish. You are the young king's successor, and de la Pole and the others are already jealous of you. If you stand up against them now, they will defame you further. Your status as Harry's brother won't save you when that time comes."

"I know," murmured the Duke of Gloucester, "I know, my lord. I just can't...I can't!"

He looked at the Archbishop, and the Archbishop him. A robin crowed in the garden outside, and the Archbishop thought of the poem the Duke of Orleans wrote in the Tower of London.

En regardant vers le païs de France,

Un jour m’avint, a Dovre sur la mer,

Qu’il me souvint de la doulce plaisance

Que souloye oudit pays trouver ;

Si commençay de cueur a souspirer,

Combien certes que grant bien me faisoit

De voir France que mon cueur amer doit.

Taken all and all, he thought Beaufort was right. They couldn't keep Orléans locked up forever. Harry wouldn't want that either, would he? To do so would tarnish Harry's reputation. Yes, they all knew that Harry had said that he would never let Orléans go unless France had subdued to him. But...but Beaufort was right, just see what the conquered lands had become, was there even a remote chance they could gain the victory Harry desired?

"Do you remember Harry's first parliament?" The Duke of Gloucester asked him, "At Leicester, Harry said he didn't want to talk nonsense to the Commons, so Beaufort was to be his mouthpiece. He said he'd govern England well, he'd bring what we dreamed of. He'd rule fairly, justly, and according to the laws of old, he'd make England as victorious as our forefather Edward's time. But look now, this England, and that France on the other side of the sea. Is this what we dreamt of?"

He looked at the Archbishop, and the Archbishop him, and Harry's pale, lean face was in front of his eyes, smiling up at him in his arms.

Father, Harry said, I can't let them see me like this, you shall negotiate with the Dauphin in my place, I have faith in you.

His child became the sacrifice of that dream, but to what avail? His hawk-like fingers opened and re-clenched into a fist in the air, his palm empty.

"But, Duke Humphrey, what can you do?"

* * *

The Duke of Gloucester couldn't do a thing. The Archbishop thought ruefully. He had overestimated the Duke of Gloucester, whose year seemed to have outgrown his wit, and was still the same thunderous and incompetent fool.

He watched the Duke's robes disappear in the doorway of the nave, the last brother of Henry V, doing nothing except rage against the king in the presence of all the nobility of England. Tearing apart of England's veil of peace for Charles VII's emissaries to admire. He looked at the young king, standing beside the grim Duke of Orléans, and even though his sights were dim, he saw the young king looking at Gloucester's direction with undisguised resentment on his face. Oddly enough, Harry's only son, only had a bit of his father's spirit within him when he resented Harry's last brother. He looked at the courtiers and court favourites, half of them unfamiliar faces, some of them he could only recognize by their coat of arms, the memory of them was when they held their mother's skirts. Philip Morgan died in the year of the young king's coming of age, when the glory of their gold embroidery was tarnished by mud. The king of England wept before Burgundy's ambassador. The Pope's emissaries drum their lips in Scotland, and their doom began to dawn from the horizon.

He went to see Philip before the end. Philip clutched at him with all his strength, but could only utter vague sounds, but he understood. He understood what Phillip was trying to say. Tears crossed his thin cheeks, and Philip's large, unseeing eyes were filled with pain. "I failed him." He said, "I've failed Harry."

Philip was wrong, the Archbishop thought, terribly wrong. Philip had not failed Harry. It was Harry's boy who failed Harry.

The Archbishop looked at the stupid smile on the young king's face and the scorn that the Frenchman did not try to hide, and wished with all his heart that he had died that year too.

The Archbishop, leaning on his scepter, stood in his cathedral. The nobles had already left with the king. Kemp left hesitantly as if he had something to say to him, but he shook his head gently. The young king nodded coolly at him in greeting as he left, not even stopping. He had heard that the Duke of Gloucester mentioned his name when protesting to the young king, which would only make the young king dislike him even more.

Yet what avail is the king's favor to him now? He stretched out his free hand and caressed the tomb before him, his eyes clouded with mist, his hands cold with the touch of marble stones. He felt the folds of the vestments on the statue, the hands folded in prayer, and the archbishop's mitre on his head. This was his tomb.

He began building his tomb at the end of the year of Harry's death, when Rome began to prey on him, and Harry no longer there to shield him. He was expecting the empty tomb to come to use in a few years - Harry hadn't reached thirty-six when he died. He himself was then in his early sixties. Who would have thought that he would live to be eighty years old, while this tomb remained empty for almost twenty years?

His hand reached tentatively to the lower tier of the tomb, but he could not bend down, nor could he reach the statue on the bottom. He had seen such double-layered tombs in Italy, where the lower-tier showing the form of the dead and the upper-tier the living incarnation. the lower-tier was real and the upper-tier illusory; the lower, skeletons, the upper, human. He remembered Harry's bier, the in the cortège a lavishly decorated figure, a poor imitation of the deceased, below it a plain lead coffin, with the bones, the remains of a king. Death dances merrily on the walls of Paris, and kings, bishops, noblewomen, commoners, beggars, all must eventually join in.

He touched the letters of the upper inscription lightly, workmanlike Latin letters that spelled out a string of empty, preposterous overtones. All was but vanity. He couldn't even remember what it said, but he didn't even have to touch it to recall the lower inscriptions that surrounded the skeletal figure.

I am pauper born, then to Primate raised,

Now I am cut down and ready to be food for worms

Behold my grave,

Whoever you may be who passes by, I ask you to remember

You will be like me after you die

All horrible, dust, worms, vile flesh

But what does it matter? The Archbishop thought, his hand flicking carelessly over the inscription. Worldly honour he had had enough. the king's favor meant nothing to him, and the fall of England was at hand.

And Harry was waiting for him.

**Author's Note:**

> The title was taken from BBC's podcast 'The Plantagents' which I favour, originally referred to Richard II.  
> Henry Chichele consistently express a nostalgia for the time of Henry V long after it was gone. See, for instance, the charter of All Souls College, Oxford, to which he was the founder. Henry VI, though nominally the co-founder, seemed not much concerned about it. There are deductions that Henry VI's decision to build Eton and King's Cambridge the same year was to outshine his father and override the Lancastrian tradition of endosing Oxford.  
> Chichele did crossed the channel to visit Henry V during the siege of Rouen, but the dis-ease of Henry at Rouen was purely fictional.  
> 'As an eagle stirreth up her nest...', inscription on the ring of the Dukes of Lancaster, see Malcolm Vale's Henry V.  
> The Duke of Gloucester made at least two protests against the release of Orleans, for these see Rymer's Foedera and PROME 1440.  
> The tomb was transi tomb/ cadaver tomb, which was popularized in the continent after the black death. Chichele's tomb was the first of its kind in England. The epitaph was translated from the original Latin.  
> The dance was Danse Macabre, which was first drawn on the wall of Holy Innocents' Cemetery in Paris c.a. 1425. Lydgate later translated the poem into English.


End file.
